


Grief

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2006-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:36:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Grief

It is an unkind thought, but Archie cannot help it: He wishes that Horatio could choose one single example from the spectrum of human emotion to process in a straightforward and predictable fashion. Winnowing one's way through the layers of contradiction and denial and the occasional outright stubborn refusal to acknowledge reality is, most of the time, a puzzle and a challenge and one of Archie's most well-loved entertainments, but tonight is not one of those times. Horatio is hurting, any fool could see that, and everything Archie has tried to do for him-- Archie who is his friend and his lover and only a fool three or four days out of seven-- has been wrong.

To be fair, he has been following a previously successful model. When Mariette died, Horatio's grief was noisy, tempestuous, and brief. He cried, he said entirely maudlin and predictable and sincere things, Archie got him properly drunk, and the worst edge of the grief was gone with the hangover. So when the letter bearing word of Dr. Hornblower's death arrived just before they were to have leave, Archie had thanked his stars and dragged Horatio off to the first and cheapest tavern he could find.

In retrospect, though, he should have realized that this grief is not the same. Horatio has not shed a tear or spoken more than a dozen words since reading the letter. He drank everything Archie placed in front of him in the tavern, and the two other taverns that followed. He sat white-faced and hollow-eyed and silent, and he drank, and now he is puking his lungs out in a Portsmouth gutter, heaving and retching and still not speaking, not even to curse or choke out a plea for mercy from an uncaring God. And the truth is that Archie is becoming quite unnerved, because he has no idea what to do.

After a moment, he realizes that the sounds have stopped and that Horatio is simply kneeling there in the gutter, his own vomit puddling before him and soaking the knees of his breeches. The sight is too pathetic and wrong to be borne, and Archie gives himself a sharp mental shake. Not knowing what to do doesn't mean you shouldn't do _anything_.

"Horatio," he says, gently catching his friend under the arms and hauling him to his feet, "let's get you to bed."

Horatio's body is as awkward and heavy as a sack of wet sand, but at least he's malleable, permitting Archie to shift his limbs about and find his balance without a word of protest. He blinks slowly, his eyes huge and wet, though Archie suspects not with proper tears but instead a side effect of his undignified exertions.

"My father died," Horatio informs him in a small, bewildered voice. Archie swallows and guides him to take one step, then another, at a rate that will see them to their room in roughly a fortnight.

"I know," he says, taking as much of Horatio's weight as he can. "I'm sorry."

"I suppose," Horatio says, stepping sideways rather than forward and nearly running Archie into a wall, "that I ought to go to a church."

Archie blinks-- that's an unusual request from Horatio, and in Hornblower's current state Archie can't be entirely sure what sort of time frame he intends for the statement. "Now? Do you want to?"

"No." Horatio's voice is remarkably calm and even, even as he steps sideways again in the opposite direction and nearly slips from Archie's grasp. "But I feel as if I ought to."

Ah, yes, one of the great Hornblower _oughts_. Archie adjusts his arms to hold Horatio a bit closer. "Perhaps in the morning. Right now, you need to sleep."

"As you say," comes the indifferent reply. "But I think the proper thing to do is say a prayer for the man."

They weave their way along back to the inn, Horatio occasionally muttering what may be attempts at prayer, or poetry, or a sincere drunken effort to remember something with clarity. Archie hardly notices; all of his focus is on helping Horatio make each step in turn, and keeping the thin body under his hands stay upright through its trembling.

"Here we are," he says softly when they reach the place at last. "Just have to make it up the stairs, Horatio."

Horatio looks at him again, his face flushed now from drink and exertion and emotion, his eyes bright with what Archie thinks now are true tears. "Archie, my father died."

He says it with the same note of helpless confusion, as if half-expecting Archie to tell him not to be silly. But all Archie can do is hold him tighter still and urge him to take the first step up the staircase. "I know."

Once in the room, he gets Horatio's jacket off and then spills him onto the bed. His long legs fall over the edge and Archie sets to work unlacing his boots; Horatio may end up sleeping in the stained breeches and his shirt if he can't cooperate enough for Archie to undress him fully, but the boots at least must come off so he can be maneuvered into the bed all the way. And perhaps having to focus so intently to see the laces through suddenly oddly blurred eyes means that Archie doesn't have to take in the childlike, lost sorrow on Horatio's face. But what of it? The boots must come off, and--

"He was the last of my family." Horatio's voice is rougher now, the drink hitting him anew now that he's horizontal. He twists his fingers in the blankets, and Archie guesses that the room must be spinning for him, though his eyes remain open wide and fixed on the ceiling. "Got no one left now."

"I'm so sorry, Horatio." Archie eases the boots off and coaxes him to scoot up properly in the bed. He'll get Horatio tucked in, change to his own nightshirt, and spend the night offering the comfort of warm arms and gentle kisses, no more. He suspects the wall of Horatio's restraint is growing more cracked by the moment and soon will fall, and that Horatio needs his friend more than his lover tonight.

"Last one to know me before the Navy, really," Horatio says, still staring at the ceiling. "Does that mean that's dead as well? That part of me, the part that's not an officer? Am I just the lieutenant now, and nothing else?"

Archie stops in removing his own jacket. "Oh, Horatio. No. That's not how it works. You're still you, love." He finally gets the garment off and folds it over the chair with shaking hands. "You're still...all of you."

Horatio turns his head and looks at Archie sorrowfully. "You'll stay with me?"

"Of course." Archie crosses back to the bed and sits on the edge, leaning down to kiss Horatio's forehead. "As long as you want me."

Horatio blinks hard and nods, the wall ever closer to falling down, and Archie forgets any plans of undressing to lie down beside him and gather him in his arms.

"Archie," Horatio whispers, "my father died." And the tears start at last, as Archie holds him close and whispers what comfort he can.  



End file.
